Monaco Bay Weyr - Common CavernsA grand stairway leads downward into the cool rock of the commons cavern, a place for socializing and relaxing, as well as an area that provides solid shelter from the seasonal storms of this area. One of the few caverns at Monaco Bay Weyr, the rock here has been worn away by centuries worth of water movement, leaving a nearly glass smooth polish over much of the room. Rocky shelves line the walls on which electric lights covered with paper lanterns rest, providing adequate illumination for the area. High above are further light fixtures, enabling a wide range of lighting options here. A natural pool occupies half of the far end of the cavern and is supplied with heated water piped in by an ingenious techcrafter. All about the room are balconies of rock with stairs leading to them and small dumbwaiters for the purpose of delivering food and drink to their heights.

It's late afternoon, the sun is high, and the living is easyyy… for somebody, probably. Not for Brohdan. He's booking it into the caverns like his very, literal life depends on it, running in true overdramatic form, knees lifted high, hands flat, and puffing like the bellows. The oversized candidate screeches to a halt mid-caverns, body jerking in comic spasms as he looks this way. And that. He's looking desperately for someone or something before seeming to give up on GREATNESS and resigning himself to mere adequacy. Of what, one might ask? Of hiding places. He dives under a table (that really wasn't meant for such a thing), jerks knees up under his chin, and waits.

Except, SURPRISE!!!! Because Caydan was here FIRST, MOTHER TRUCKER, and he looks equally quite the sight, with his knees pulled up to his chest and his chin tucked down and — "Ha," comes from him rude and ruder as his brother unexpectedly joins him down here where they hide from… from what? MYSTERY. "You look ridiculous." Says the man who is literally in the same exact form hiding from probably the same exact thing. Or just hiding. Most likely from anything physical. Most likely chores. Most likely Brohdan.

Ityrziel is having a considerably nicer kind of day, apparently. Although he smells strongly of laundry solvents and his hair is a little wild, well, he's smiling at least, engaged in a bright conversation with a lady in a Xanadian knot. Well. Until he spots Brohdan full on sprinting through the caverns, which, well, that's weird enough for him to hand her one of his plates. Are there two? MAYBE. SHUT UP. The candidate sets off for the table at not-quite-a-sprint, but a nice good clip anyways, and is absolutely unsubtle when he folds himself under it. It's — "What a strange meeting place." There's two of them. "Are you quite…alright, there?" Tyr folds himself down, shuffles to sit criss-cross legged with his plate in his lap, like This Is Normal. Look. Who here has food? Tyr. Tyr has food. Clearly he's the sanest chicken under this table.

Brohdan is alarmed, but really, have we yet to see him in any other state? No. No we have not. And so it shouldn't be surprising when he jumps half out of his skin with a, "GAH!-" THUNK. "OWWWW." Don't mind him, he'll just be thudding his head onto his knees, clutching the back of his head before jerking his elbow towards Caydan. "Feck, Cassie, warn a fella will you?" As if this was his fault. Brodie he was here first! "About shat myself. What're you even doing down here?" … Listen, he's not the brightest glow in the basket, but he does have some sense. Legs are fast approaching them, and Brohdan has the foresight to change that smashing elbow to an outflung arm instead, as though ready and willing to throw his body in front of the stampeding hordes and save him from — "Tyr?" It takes a second for this to sink in, for manbrain ACTIVATING PROTECTION PROTOCOL to wind down and intelligent thought to take over. "I got new clothes!" … Maybe not so much on the intelligence front, but listen, he's pretty excited to get to share the news, too-big body perking up to gesture at his whole sel— THUNK. "Owwww." This is fine. What's a little concussion amongst friends? Words are only a little wince-y as he asks, "You're hiding from the children, too?" A blink, and then he leans towards Caydan, looking him over unsubtly. "Where are your provisions?" Don't tell him they're going to starve under here while Ityrziel feasts!

Yep, Cassie is laughing at his brother, and when Brohdan recovers enough to chide him, Cassie is leaning forward just enough to announce, "MBLERGH, IT'S ME," into the mediocre distance separating them before he laughs harder. Thankfully he's not in possession of a knife, so there's no STABBINGS to go with it, but there is a suddenly dry, "Wouldn't be the first time," about Brohdan shatting himself and then — MBLERGH, IT'S ITYRZIEL. With food. Food that he does not have because, "The children got ahold of it first." That's why. THEN THEY ARE TALKING ABOUT CLOTHES, and Cassie's eyes are rolling so hard they just about man a mission to the Belior or Timor or both. ALL. EVERY. MANY. THE COLLECTIVE COSMOS UP ABOVE. "Right," he says, clapping a hand to Brohdan's shoulder and then hesitating before clapping one to Tyr's. "I… I'm going to go and see about…" Something. He doesn't finish that sentence. HE'S OFF. … Probably to tell the children where Brohdan is, so that he can escape the madness while Brohdan has ALL THE FUN.

"New clothes! Oh!" Ityrziel beams, here, shoulders swaying forward until he nearly plants his nice lil vest in his plate and straightens. "That's wonderful! I'm certain the steward was able to appoint you nicely, hmm?" The harper doesn't stop beaming for the poor fellow's concussion, just takes a bite of what looks like some sort of intricate shrimp dish. Chews, waits for the poor fellow to collect himself, smiling benevolently at Cassie in the meantime. "You've successfully escaped the children? Genius. Hide in plain sight." You know. Right at eye level. WHATEVER, TYR, SMARTASS. He doesn't shrug the second brother off, either, rather reaches up with a free hand to pat the hand like an eighty-turn-old probably would. "I hear that Mulra is offering to trade for Nanny duty, as she was already a nanny!" The candidate calls after the other, helpfully, definitely not at all drawing attention to their location. "How do you like the clothing, then, Brohdan? Withstand the onslaught of the children?" Tyr says 'children' like he means 'giant terrifying monsters', with a straight face, as he chomps down on another bite. Well. One of them is going to starve. It's totally not going to be Tyr, though.

It's impressive, how much Brohdan's face can scrooch beneath the beginnings of what is definitely an ill-advised beard. "Not funny, Cassie. Got enough to worry about with the bugs and the sun and the ominously rustling bushes, I don't need any trouble out of you!" Very stern words from a man that's afraid of his own shadow - too bad they're belied by a twinkle in his eyes, a mutual sharing of a long-standing game. Or battle of wills. Both. "Mmf. Bested by children. Our mother would be so proud." Of both of their sorry, stupid, table hiding asses. Definitely. "Very well. Enjoy your quest for the…" It takes him a beat to realize Caydan isn't going to finish that sentence, the hand he's clapped to his brother's shoulder lingering a moment after he's gone, blinking once, twice… and then his head shakes and he focuses on Tyr. "Yes! Look! He gave me the pick of what they had, said I would look quite the spectacle!" And oh, how he does, in a bright red sarong wrapped over cut-off shorts and a flamboyantly purple top that's done little more than expose his arms to ample sunlight. "Such colors they have in this weyr! I like it." The sunburn he has coming for him… not so much. It's fine. "Mulra, you say? Hmm, yes, perhaps I will speak with this Mulra. The children don't like to play our games, and they are quite… difficult." To put it succinctly. "No! Actually, no. I had a scarf to go with this, bright gold you see, but one of them seemed to think it funny that they could use it as reins and…" It went as well as you'd expect. "But I shall survive, where it shall not." VICTORY. "I see you have vanquished your fear of the kitchens. Good man." Look out, it's a shoulder clap, coming your way! Dive, dive!

Ityrziel is absolutely focused on his meal; and has the sibling-born ability to tune out bickering, eyes maybe a little glazed. Are they fighting? Are they happy? Faranth might know, but Tyr does not, humming happily around a mouthful of spicy seafood. "Your mother should be told, ah, other stories, I would say." Or maybe he's paying attention. Maybe. "Oh, he's not —" He's not going to finish that sentence, Tyr seems to be trying to say, but apparently decides that it's not worth the effort. Or possibly is just distracted by the…shall we say glory of the northern fella's new outfit. "Well," Tactfully, the harper contemplates, chewing on his thoughts and also a large mouthful of pasta. "It's certainly a better fit for the climate, isn't it! And your choice in colors is quite nice. Yes." Maybe neither of them have any sense; Tyr's vest is jewel-toned ruby, too. Ridiculous. As for the children, though, the candidate kind of twitches, eyes wide. "The older ones aren't so bad, you know, they're more reasonable — the tiny ones, though?" A beat, and horror dawns. "Reins? Faranth, man, you'll — you'll let them kill you. Survive, well, I'm not so sure. You do need to breathe, generally." A hand flaps anxiously, drawn up to his chest. It takes a moment for Tyr to collect himself, but that he does, pulling his plate closer to his chest and smiling, rueful. "Oh, well, you know. Needs must, and all."

"Why bother. I think she expects it of us, at this point," Brohdan says with that blithe over-honest way he has, jovial despite the disparaging of his own self. "She'd be suspect if the only stories she heard were the good ones. And probably upset, that all we ever were was terrible for her." Blue eyes focus on Tyr's food, with the kind of intensity that can only mean he's trying to move it to his face with HIS MIND, offering only the barest of grunts and a distracted, "No, he isn't," on the subject of Cassie's rude departure. He's at least willing enough to snap-to for compliments, at least, even those not-entirely-as-enthusiastic-as-expected. "Thank you! I thought so, too. We've never had anything quite this bright, it caught my attention immediately. There is also one that has been tide-dyed. I do not know what that is, but I assume based on the name and its appearance, that they pour dye on it and then throw it into the ocean. It's very pretty." Lordy. "You worry too much, my friend. It will take more than that to kill me." Ah, look at this big man now, talking the talk so soon after walking a very different walk. "I just wish they were not so sticky. I've already enough trouble with that myself." Gross, Brodie. Gross. And then it happens. A faint rumble. A disturbance in the force. It is… "The horde," issued in a fearful whisper, panic returning to blue eyes that focus on Ityrziel's. It is a long, lingering look, the kind brothers in arms give to their comrades before they make a madcap dash into no man's land. That SHOULDER CLAP finally lands, Tyr's shoulder shaken as though he is Brodie's last grip on a world of good and sanity as he says, "I must leave you. Find somewhere safe." Or you know. Just stand up. Melodramatic ass. As for him? He's already scrabbling from beneath the table with a series of soft swears and awkward thumps and bumps, eventually curling into a graceless tuck and roll that ends up with him on his feet just in time to deadass sprint away from a flock of children chanting his name in devilish rhythm. Terrifying.

Tyr's slow nod is rueful. "Well, I suppose that's the nature of mothers. Not given the kindness of being surprised by our, ah, less spectacular moments." He hums, head shaking back and forth ridiculously. "True enough, though: you'll have to write home about those eggs." It's not quite a warning, but the context of 'bad stuff too' is probably at least a little ominous. Way to hype a guy up, Tyr. Rude. Rude Tyr, whose expression goes slowly down into dawning horror for the idea of wearing anything — "Tide dyed." the harper mouths, mystified, and you know. He probably would have been a bro and tried to talk the guy out of what, given his expression, is nothing short of an utter tragedy, except. "Oh no." He's got good ears on him, this one, and he's paranoid enough to know The Signs. "No, he did it, the bastard. I was enjoying my meal!" Tyr cries, dramatic, already clambering up out of the safehaven. "Don't leave me, you're bigger than me, no —" TOO LATE. Tyr rolls, himself, makes a dive for the shelter of that foreign rider. "This way! Quickly, now, come on!"